


Episode 2: Crisis and Faith

by asexual-fandom-queen (writeordietrying)



Series: Legends of Tomorrow Season 2 Rewrite [2]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Antioch on the Orontes, Canon Rewrite, Cretaceous Period, Gen, Legends Rewrite, The Crusades, The First Crusade, Virtual Season/Series, legends of tomorrow season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 14:24:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12014646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeordietrying/pseuds/asexual-fandom-queen
Summary: Mick and Nate travel to Antioch on the Orontes during the First Crusade to rescue Stein and Jax. Before they arrive, however, interference from Stein in the quest to retrieve a special relic puts the whole of the Crusades – and history as it’s known – at risk. Meanwhile, Ray struggles to survive being stranded in the Cretaceous Period.(episode 2 of a full 22-episode rewrite of season 2 - the same broad story arc, but rewritten episodes)





	1. Teaser

_Previously on Legends of Tomorrow: To save the crew of the Waverider from certain death, Rip Hunter scattered them across time, leaving only Mick behind to pick up the pieces. With help from Oliver Queen, Kendra Saunders, and a history student named Nate Heywood, Mick was revived from the artificial coma Rip placed him under, and with Nate on still board, launched into his mission to retrieve the rest of his crew._

 

* * *

  

The scent of sweat and decay hangs heavy in the air.

Peter Bartholomew stumbles down narrow, winding city streets, the fierce bite of hunger faded to a dull, disorienting ache that fills his head like cotton as bile roils low in the pit of his gut. Food has been scarce since the Crusaders took Antioch, and while Peter is a holy man, pain of death eats away at his constitution the way hunger gnaws the muscle from his bones.

A force catches Peter by the ankle and sends him tumbling to the ground. Cradling scraped palms to his chest, Peter turns onto his flank and searches, through the dark and the blur of his poor vision, for source of his trouble.

Lying on the ground is a man more skeletal than even he. His fingers latch with strength greater than expected from someone so weak and malnourished. Peter’s chest seizes with fright, leg kicking out to wrench his foot free of the waifish man’s grasp.

The man opens his mouth to speak, but instead, a wet, harsh rattle slips from his throat. Peter’s right hand flies to his forehead as he crosses himself, his left clawing across the ground to race backward still.

“Our Father in Heaven, hallowed be your name,” Peter whispers, his voice nearly caught in his throat as fear leaves him dizzy. He continues reciting the Lord’s Prayer as he scrambles to his feet and, quick as his trembling legs will allow, dashes from the street to escape a fate that will all too soon be his.

The next street over, Peter scours an overturned cart for scraps of food but here, like everywhere else he’s searched, there isn’t so much as a stale loaf of bread to be found. He considers breaking past the guards and stealing from the rations, but his faith is not yet shaken enough to go through with taking from the needy.

It is faith that brought him to partake in this Crusade, joining the army of Raymond of Saint-Gilles from his homeland of France. This is God’s will, he knows. As Peter’s vision dims to mere pinpricks of light, stumbling through the streets of Antioch hungry and and in pain, he prays that God reveal to him in his final moments the purpose for his suffering. Though he knows it’s arrogant and not man’s place to demand answers from the Lord, he can’t help but hope to find them anyway. If not here on Earth, than surely when he ascends to Heaven.

Before unconsciousness takes him, a vision overtakes him, and Peter knows with perfect clarity that his purpose in this mortal life is far from over yet.

 

* * *

 

“Antioch on the Orontes, June 14th, 1098.”

Mick glances from the display screen in Rip’s– _the_ study, arms crossed over his chest, face impassive. “That supposed to mean something, Pretty?”

Nate exuberant smile falters. “Come on, bro,” he says.

Mick’s eyes narrow. Nate makes a silent note to refrain from calling him _bro_ again.

Nate sighs and sweeps out a hand, gesturing at the imagery on screen, a mix of old, yellowed texts and artist renderings of great battles and medieval weaponry. “It’s the crusades! The First Crusade, to be exact, called on by Pope Urban II in 1095 with the ultimate goal of recapturing the Holy Land.”

“Right,” Mick says with a curt nod and a tight smile. “That thing where a bunch of Catholic pricks went on a murder spree to spread the good word.”

Nate’s reaction is instantaneous, a sharp, short, inhaled breath. “That’s not–” he begins, but stops himself short, mouth closing, eyebrows scrunching. “Technically wrong.”

“Grossly oversimplified,” Nate tries again, but Mick is already through the study doors and onto the bridge.

“Don’t know about history, don’t care,” Mick snaps.

Nate frowns. “Then how are you supposed to blend into the time period? Come up with a plan?”

“It’s a rescue mission, in and out,” Mick says. “Why bother? ‘Sides, the planning bit’s never really been my thing.”  

Nate gapes like a fish. “That–” he stammers, blinking hard and shaking his head, trying to clear out the jumble of panicked thoughts screaming in his brain. “That’s– no. Do you know what kind of consequences could stem from whatever damage you do? You can’t just run into history and do whatever you want.”

Mick remains unaffected. “If it works, it works.”

He turns on his heels and makes for the corridor. Nate stays rooted in place for a beat, processing Mick’s glib indifference to reality as they know it, before he registers Mick’s movement and takes off after him.

“Hey, wait, where are you going?” Nate asks.

“Antigua,” Mick replies, slowing his stride like it physically pains him to spend one more second in Nate’s company.

“Antioch,” Nate corrects.

Mick shrugs. “Whatever.”

“Alright,” Nate says. “So, let’s go.”

Mick frowns. “You ain’t coming,” he says.

Nate’s face falls. “What?” he cries. “Come on, you need me! I actually know the first thing about what’s going on out there.”

“Right,” Mick replies. “‘Cause you’re a history guy. Which is why you’re staying put. Finding the rest of the crew.”

“Oh, come on,” Nate protests. “It’s a timeship. What does it matter when I find them? They’ll still be there.”

Mick spins in place, grabbing fistfulls of Nate’s shirt and pinning him up against the wall. “Find the others,” he growls, low and threatening.

Nate practically quakes, swallows rough and thick. “Yeah, no, of course,” he stammers. “Find the rest of the Legends. Got it.”

Mick lets him go with a final shove, then stalks down the hallway toward the Waverider’s exterior doors. Nate rights himself, smooths down the front of his shirt and rolls his shoulders, then heads back to the library. He stations himself at the desk, impressively large and ornate, and picks up an old, weathered tome.

“Like looking for a needle in a stack of needles,” he sighs, but with one, deep, grounding breath, he gets to work. “Let’s see where you’re all hiding, shall we?”

 

* * *

 

Leaves thunder underfoot as Ray races through the forest on trembling legs.

His heart hammers in his throat, lungs searing with the strain of exertion. The air is humid and thick, the smell of wood rot and fecal matter and sickly sweet flowers long extinct in Ray’s time choking him as he tries desperately to draw in air.

The ground shakes under Ray’s feet, and the ungodly screech of the Tyrannosaurus Rex approaching fast sends a shock of adrenaline so intense through his system, he nearly vomits with it.

“Come on, come on, come on,” Ray mutters to himself, a waste of breath, but just the mantra he needs to kick his body into high gear.

Ray takes a turn down a sharp embankment, hoping to lose the T. Rex by veering off a straight path. He’s spent too many years ducking bullets and photon blasters – projectiles, man-made, fallible against evasive countermeasures. Dinosaurs aren’t as simple to dodge.  

The momentum sliding down the embankment throws off Ray’s balance. He stumbles, catches his foot on an upended root, and goes down hard, body hitting the earth with a sickening _smack_. White hot pain shoots through his body like electricity through a lightning rod. Ray bites through his lip holding back a scream, tastes the familiar metal tang of blood on his tongue.

The T. Rex screeches again, the ground trembling harder as every thumping step brings it closer to its next meal.

From the corner of his eye, Ray spots a hollow under the embankment where the roots of a partway-felled tree offers a place to hide. His lower body shifts to scramble to his feet, but another agonizing stab of pain steals his breath and stops him short.

The T. Rex nearly on top of him now, all Ray can do is dig his hands into the dirt and pull himself forward with his arms, gritting his teeth against the pain that sends white spots dancing in his field of vision.

Ray hides himself under the tree roots just in time for the T. Rex to land a foot down on the ground overhead, earth falling like rain into his hair and down the remaining tatters of his clothes.

The T. Rex stomps. It roars. It knows where Ray is hiding, does its level best to shake the ground above him and frighten him from his hiding place. Ray breathes shaky through his nose, trying to stave off the rising panic in his chest.

Fortunately, just as the earth looks ready to give way and send the giant creature down on Ray’s head, a noise of breaking branches from deeper in the forest catches the T. Rex’s attention. Seconds later, it’s gone, off to chase after prey that would make a more substantial meal.

Ray huffs out a sharp, terrified breath, then another. He blinks hard, pushing back tears as relief floods through him with such intensity it makes his head spin. He’s on the verge of passing out when a spasm in the muscle of his right leg sends a jolt of pain up his spine and closes around his throat like a vice.

With dread turning his stomach to acid and lead all at once, Ray pulls up his pant leg and examines the damage he took in the fall.

The skin stretched across Ray’s shin is purple and swollen, bent unnaturally around the lower third, just above his ankle. Gingerly, he touches the fringe of the bruising, and the pain is nearly unbearable.

Ray’s heart stops dead and sinks to the churning depths of his gut. Stuck in the Cretaceous period with dinosaurs who want to eat him and no help in sight, and his leg…

His leg is broken.

 

* * *

 

**DC'S LEGENDS OF TOMORROW**

 


	2. Act One

“Do you have to do that?”

Stein pauses with a piece of bread halfway to his mouth. He glances over at Jax, an inquisitive eyebrow raised, and Jax sighs, shaking his head.

“Come now, Jefferson,” Stein says, a mix of confused and bemused. “Surely you aren’t opposed to keeping ourselves from starving.”

Jax purses his lips, expression sour. He blows out a hot, frustrated breath through his nose and gives Stein his back. He busies himself wetting rags from a bucket of water that tired, haggard soldiers brought in early that morning, before the merciful chill of pre-dawn gave way to stifling sunshine.

What cruel twist of fate, to escape certain death aboard the Waverider only to end up trapped in medieval Turkey at the height of the First Crusade. They arrived sometime after the first siege, when the Crusaders took Antioch, now modern-day Antakya. They’ve been stranded nearly two weeks, by Jax’s best estimate, though time is difficult to track through hunger, the mind and the body turning sluggish and cloudy.

“I just think it’s wrong,” Jax bites out after a valiant effort to hold his tongue. The heat and the smell of sickness permeating every corner of the makeshift infirmary where they’ve been set to work claw under his skin, turning him irritable. “We’re supposed to be up here helping these people, and you’re stealing their rations.”

Jax turns to glare over his shoulder at Stein, who’s frowning. “These people have all been dead for centuries by our time,” Stein reasons. “I understand your concern, Jefferson, but first and foremost, it is our survival we must worry about.”

Jax knows that, of course, but it’s one thing to rationalize an abstract concept, and another to see people dying firsthand, especially because of him. Stein startles him out of his moral dilemma with a hand on his shoulder.

“Here,” Stein says, holding out a fresh piece of bread for Jax to take. “You need energy. You passed your message along to Miss Saunders’ past self” – a beacon of hope if Jax has ever known one – “but neither of us will be rescued if we starve to death.”

Nodding, Jax takes the offering with a tight, conflicted smile. Stein smiles back, brighter, more self-assured, and pats Jax on the back, then goes back to his workstation where he’s mixing a rudimentary salve from the most basic muds and herbs to which they have access.

Jax turns his back to Stein once more and examines the bread in his hands with intense scrutiny. It’s grainy and unleavened, barely passable as bread, but it’s food all the same. His stomach roils, reminding him of just how hungry he is, when he ate last and how little it had been.

Across the room on a makeshift cot, a Crusader coughs, wet and rattling. His face his sallow and gaunt, and a pang of guilt hits Jax square in the chest. Glancing back to make sure Stein is occupied, Jax sneaks over to the infirmary’s rations pile and sets his piece of bread back among the others set aside for the sick.

Just as Jax takes his hand from the rations pile, the door to the infirmary crashes open, and Jax’s heart hammers in his chest in panic at almost being caught.

“Make way,” cries a soldier, a young man barely Jax’s age. He shuffles inside backwards, an unconscious man with a head full of greasy black hair secured under his armpits as another soldier carries the man in by his knees.

“Set him down,” Stein says, directing the men to an open cot. “Quickly.” Over his shoulder, Stein calls out, “water, Jefferson, please.”

“We found him outside the Cathedral of Saint Peter,” the younger man supplies as Jax comes over with a cup of the cleanest water at hand and a cloth. “He was conscious then, just barely. Speaking.”

“Raving,” the older man corrects, dismissive and derisive.

“When did he lose consciousness?” Stein asks. While he may not be a medical doctor, he plays the role well enough after a lifetime immersed in 21st century healthcare standards.

“Five minutes ago at most,” the younger man supplies. “Though we only just found him. It’s possible he lost consciousness before.”

Stein nods, processes, takes the cup of water from Jax and brings it to the man’s lip, hoping to coax him to drink.

The older soldier looks bored to be there, but the younger one hovers nervously, watches Stein work. “Will he–” he stammers. “Will he be alright?”

Stein and Jax share a heavy look.

Stein turns back to the young man and puts on a brave face. “Time will tell,” he replies.

The young man nods. “Then I shall keep him in my prayers.”

In a flurry of movement, the unconscious man bolts upright with a ragged gasp. Water spills down the front of his tunic as he knocks the cup from Stein’s hands and grips madly onto his wrist.

“In the cathedral,” the man exclaims. The madness in his eyes shakes Jax to his core.

“Sir, you need to conserve your energy,” Stein says, aiming to be as placating as possible. “What’s your name?”

“I am Peter,” the man says. “Peter Bartholomew. And I have been shown a vision by Saint Andrew that will lead the Crusaders in Antioch to victory against the siege of the Turks.”

The older soldier scoffs. “See?” he says. “Raving.”

Stein nods. “Lack of food has been known to cause vivid hallucinations,” he explains.

The younger soldier doesn’t look so convinced. Neither does Peter Bartholomew.

“They are not hallucinations,” Peter insists. “I have had these visions for many months, leading me here, to Antioch, the Cathedral of Saint Peter. I know where it is. The Holy Lance. It will be our salvation.”

Despite the anxiety Peter’s intense energy sends coursing through his veins, Jax can’t help the thought that leaps to mind. “We’re looking for a Lance to save us, too,” he whispers. “‘Cept ours isn’t quite so holy.”

 

* * *

 

Mick is in Antioch all of two minutes before he decides he hates it.

It’s all the suffering and misery of war without any of the violence, the adrenaline, the ache in his joints and blood on his knuckles. Just a bunch of sad sacks, tired and hungry and waiting around to die. He tries not to to picture the Professor’s face, or the Kid’s, when beggars reach for him with chapped, bony hands. Bird Girl said they were fine, so they’re fine.

As he passes outside a towering stone building, huddled masses gathered, prostrate in prayer even on the front steps, a chill clings to Mick’s skin that he doesn’t know how to explain. It’s a breeze against the back of his neck, like a whisper in his ear that rattles him, forces him to turn in place and look over his shoulder. But there is no voice, no person. Probably just a horsefly, feasting on the waste littering the streets, lingering in anticipation for the next poor soul to die. Or maybe it’s his self-preservation instincts going haywire in the face of so much imminent death.

Shaking himself, Mick makes his way to the heart of the city where Kendra promised Jax and Stein would be, safe and sound and as annoyingly good Samaritan-esque as they’ve ever been.  

 

* * *

 

“I really must insist you stay in bed,” Stein says as he and Jax wait with Peter to meet a caucus of Crusade leaders to discuss Peter’s supposed vision.

After the soldiers left the infirmary, word spread to those in command faster than Peter could wrestle himself out of bed, set on a righteous mission to dig up the Holy Lance for the Crusaders. Nervous for his health, Jax and Stein followed him across the city and were promptly sent in to see the commanders upon their arrival.

A rear door to the chambers opens with a loud creak, and Jax straightens on impulse. He’s vaguely familiar, after two weeks in Antioch, of the parties as they enter. The first is Raymond Saint-Gilles, Count of Toulouse. Behind him is Raymond of Aguilers, chronicler and chaplain to the Count. After them come William, bishop of Orange, Adhemar de Monteil, bishop of Puy-en-Velay, and Bohemond I, Prince of Taranto and, as of quite recently, Prince of Antioch.

Several scribes and other Crusaders of lesser import trickle in behind them, but those five people, Jax knows, are the ones to take seriously.

“Peter Bartholomew,” greets Raymond Saint-Gilles, seated at the front of the room on a raised platform, conjuring the image of royalty. “Rumour tells us you’ve had a vision from Saint Andrew, revealing to you the location of the Holy Lance.”

“I have, Your Excellency,”  Peter replies. He opens his mouth to continue, but is cut off by a haughty scoff.

“Preposterous,” Adhemar says. “This man is nothing more than a charlatan and a blasphemer. I have seen in Constantinople the very relic of which Peter Bartholomew speaks. Mean you to imply the faithful of Constantinople are liars?”

Peter blanches. “Not at all, Your Excellency,” he stammers.

Adhemar nods, satisfied and dismissive, but Peter finds from somewhere deep within the nerve to speak up again. “Perhaps they are simply misinformed,” he says. “For while they believe their relic to be true, I know, by virtue of Saint Anthony and the vision which he bestowed upon me, it is not. The true relic lies buried under the Cathedral of Saint Peter, here, in Antioch.”

“Then, we must begin excavating at once,” says the bishop of Orange.

Adhemar turns red, outrage clear on his face. “And squander our resources?” he bellows. “Does it not concern you that we are at war with the Turks? Our few remaining rations are already failing to properly feed our men without adding the strain of excavating an entire cathedral.”

Jax remains silent, lest Adhemar’s outrage fall on him, but Stein seems to employ the opposite strategy, stepping forward and clearing his throat to gain the room’s attention.

“Grey, don’t,” Jax hisses, knowing all too well they shouldn't interfere with the timeline, but it’s already too late.

“Mr. Bartholomew is an ill man,” Stein announces, head high, shoulders back. “Suffering from hallucinations brought on by extreme hunger. Many that have come through the infirmary have shown similar symptoms.”  

An entire room of scrutinizing eyes fall on Stein.

“You are the doctor?” Prince Bohemond asks, gaze critical, calculating.

“Stein,” Martin replies. “And this is my associate, Jefferson Jackson.”

Jax has no choice but to grit his teeth and bow.

“While I cannot speak for the hallucinations of others,” Peter says. “I can assure you, my visions are genuine. Saint Anthony has shown me the location of the Holy Lance, and without it, Antioch will fall to the Turks. If you are honest men of God as you so claim to be, you will have faith in these visions and join me in my search. Elsewise, all I ask is your permission to proceed alone.”

“You mustn’t listen to this man,” Stein tries again as Peter’s impassioned plea seems to be winning over the room. “He will bleed your resources dry. There is no Holy Lance buried in Saint Peter’s Cathedral. It is a product of Mr. Bartholomew’s undernourished mind.”

“Enough,” Raymond Saint-Gilles says, raising a hand to cut Stein off. “I appreciate that you are a man of science, Doctor, but like all of us, you would not be here if you did not also have faith. I believe Peter’s message to be true. With the Turks rallying their forces under the skilled leadership of Kerbogha, this asset could be the only thing that stands between the success of our mission and shameful defeat. It is my will to see the Cathedral of Saint Peter searched for the Holy Lance. What say you others?”

Raymond Saint-Gilles turns in his chair and waits expectantly.

“I say not,” Adhemar asserts.

William of Orange speak next. “I agree with the Count.”

“As do I,” says Raymond of Aguilers.

“Pity the word of a chaplain holds so little weight,” Adhemar dismisses with a curl of his lip. He turns the Prince Bohemond and raises an eyebrow. “What say you, Your Majesty?”

Bohemond seems to consider his position carefully. “I know not if Peter Bartholomew’s claims are true or if they are mere hallucinations as the doctor insists,” he surmises. “Given the state of our army, the starvation we face under the strain of even minimal exertion, I’m afraid, in this instance, I must trust the doctor’s word over my faith. The cathedral ground are to be left untouched. That is my final ruling.”

Loud murmurs spread through the room like wildfire. Peter rushes forward, falls to his knees and begs, and Prince Bohemond ushers soldiers forward to restrain him. In the chaos, Jax grabs Stein by the sleeve and pulls him out into the hall, a dissatisfied frown prominent in his expression.

“What did you just do?” Jax snaps when they’re finally out of earshot.

Stein frowns. “As I recall, you were the one concerned about the lack of rations,” he says.

“That doesn’t mean I wanted you to go in and upend history,” Jax argues. “What if that cathedral was supposed to get searched. Do you even know the first thing about the Crusades?”

Stein bristles. “We are more than nine hundred years in the past, Jefferson,” he says. “At a very tumultuous time in history. Intervening in one cabinet meeting is hardly going to throw off the course of history. You wanted proactive measure to combat the starvation in Antioch and I took them.”

Stein rights himself, pulls back his shoulders and smooths his tunic. “Now,” he says with a huff. “We must return at once to the infirmary. You never know when to expect a new patient.”

Jax watches after Stein for a beat with a dissatisfied frown before taking off after him.

 

* * *

 

Pulling himself up to stand with a broken leg is a kind of pain Ray never wants to experience again. Unfortunately, it’s also unavoidable. The T. Rex is gone, for the time being, but it won’t be long until it, or another predator, circles back. The smell of blood from a fresh cut on his forehead, incurred in the fall that he’s only noticing now, permeates the air, and in his hobbled state, he’s easy prey.

Hopping over uneven terrain, Ray follows the sound of running water to a small stream nearly hidden under layers of lichen and tree roots. He lowers himself gingerly, already dreading standing again, and reaches into the stream, scrubbing his hands as clean as he can manage, then cupping them to wash out his cut.

Ray rolls his pant leg up and splashes the site of the injury clean, too. He hasn’t broken skin, fortunately, but the longer he sits with the break, the darker and more swollen the area becomes. Ray has horrible visions of internal bleeding and pulmonary embolisms and Arizona Robbins losing a leg – that’s what he gets for binging Grey’s Anatomy while stuck in the Temporal Zone.

Ray knows that if he wants to have any kind of mobility that won’t be excruciatingly painful, he needs to brace the break. Long, flexible kelp-like vegetation grows around the water’s edge, and Ray pulls enough free from the ground to braid them into sturdy lengths of twine.

Once the rope is fashioned, Ray sets out to find two pieces of wood appropriate to make his splint. The first is easy enough to find, a long, broad piece broken from its tree in just the right spot to leave a flat edge. Ray holds it against the break to try it on for size, nodding to himself as he determines it will, in fact, work.

What Ray doesn’t notice, preoccupied by his work, is the smaller glowing stick hidden among felled branches just off to his left, or the creature that glowing stick attracts. It isn’t until the sound of a twig snapping causes him to start that Ray looks over his shoulder at the raptor approaching with the stick clutched in its jaws.

“Bambi,” Ray exclaims, his eyes lighting up for the first time since pain clouded them over.  

The raptor preens under Ray’s attention, light, earth-toned feathers rustling as she dances and chirrups. She’s no more than a foot and a half tall by generous estimate, hooked talons and long, lean body giving Ray the distinct impression of an angry, turkey-crane hybrid.

The bambiraptor has been Ray’s only friend for the past four months, earning her loyalty a few weeks into his stay in the Cretaceous after offering up small animal carcases for her to pick the meat off the bones in ways his human teeth can’t quite manage. He doesn’t know where he would be without her, how he would survive the lack of socialization, the isolation.

“What do you have for me, girl?” Ray asks, gesturing to the stick in Bambi’s mouth. She hops forward and drops it at his side. Ray picks it up, examines it, and nods.

“Nice,” he compliments, reaching out to scratch the top of her head. “That’s a good dinosaur.”

Dipping the stick in the water to wash off the raptor saliva, Ray places the stick on the other side of his broken leg and gets to work fastening it in place with his homemade rope. It’s rounder and skinnier than would be ideal – strangely round for the era, actually – but it does the job well enough, and soon, Ray is leveraging himself back onto his good leg and hopping in the general direction of the cave where he’s been staying.

“Come on, Bambi,” Ray calls, gritting his teeth and bracing himself of tree trunks, but making progress slow and steady nonetheless. “Let’s go home.”

 

* * *

 

“‘Bout time you idiots showed up.”

The sight of Mick waiting for them in the infirmary when Jax and Stein step through the door is enough of a weight off their shoulders for their sighs to be audible.  

“Mick, you beautiful man,” Jax says, laughter bubbling up in his chest. “You have no idea how happy I am to see you.”

Mick raises an eyebrow and offers Jax a teasing smirk. “Not in front of the old-timer,” he deadpans, nudging his chin in Stein’s direction, and Stein huffs.

“Really, Mr. Rory?” he reprimands.

Mick just shrugs. “Bird Girl around?” he asks, changing the subject.

“Unfortunately not,” Stein replies. “She was travelling with a party that has since moved on to Constantinople.”

“Istanbul,” Jax provides.

Mick chuckles, shakes his head. “We all know the song, Kid.”

“In any case,” Stein continues. “Miss Saunders had no memory of being Chay-Ara when we met, and therefore, there was no reason for her to stay, or even to bring us along.”

“What? You haven’t been enjoying playing doctor?” Mick wisecracks, self-indulgent grin spreading across his face.  

“Mr. Rory,” Stein chastises once more, and Jax’s laughter is explosive.

“God, I’ve missed this.”

“So, you two ready to ditch the clergy and company or not?” Mick asks.

Jax smiles like the sun. “You have no idea.”

 

* * *

 

When they get back to the Waverider, Jax looks ready fall to his knees and kiss it. Stein is more reserved with his relief, but Mick can still see the wrinkles smooth from the corners of his eyes.

“Did you find them?” Nate asks, meeting them on the bridge as the automatic doors slide open with a telltale _whoosh_.

Jax knits his brows together. “Who’s this guy?” he asks. He looks to Mick for answers, but Mick shrugs instead of answering and pushes past them into the study.

“Nate Heywood,” Nate provides, stepping forward to shake first Jax, then Stein’s hands. “Historian. I’ve been helping to track down the rest of your team.”

“And?” Stein wonders.

Nate purses his lips regretfully. “No luck yet,” he says. “But ruling things out is still progress.”

“You know what else is progress?” Mick says, entering the bridge with one of Rip’s ornate crystal decanters filled with expensive brandy. He takes a swig straight from the bottle without breaking stride. “Actually finding ‘em.”

“Perhaps all this bickering can wait until we’re safely back in the Temporal Zone,” Stein suggests. “I, for one, am more than ready to leave the Crusades behind.”

Stein makes a beeline for the nearest chair to strap himself down, and Nate follows his lead. Mick’s gaze darts from the pilot’s chair to Jax, then back again, before taking another long sip of brandy and cutting the kid off.

“You’re flying,” Mick grunts, getting between Jax and his intended seat. Jax gives Mick a curious look, and Mick holds up the decanter, swilling around the alcohol inside. “Wouldn’t wanna drink and drive.”

Jax inclines his head. “Fair point,” he agrees. There’s a giddy skip in his step as he makes for the controls. “Man, does this make me, like, the Captain now?”

Stein frowns. “I wouldn’t get ahead of yourself, Jefferson,” he says. “Captain Hunter will be back shortly.”

“Yeah,” Jax replies with a dismissive shrug. “But we’re talking about the interim. I can still hardly believe he’s missing, too.”

“You know how to fly this thing?” Nate checks, hands clutched in a white-knuckle grip against the metal of the seat’s harness.

“Relax,” Jax says. “With all the engine repairs, I practically built this thing. I’ve got this. I think. Gideon?”

“Yes, Mr. Jackson,” Gideon replies, the calm, level tones of her voice feeling a lot like home. “And might I say, it’s a pleasure to have you and Professor Stein back aboard.”

“It’s good to be back, Gideon,” Stein says.

Jax chuckles. “You can say that again,” he agrees. “Plot a course to the Temporal Zone. I think it’s about time we left the Holy War behind.”

Gideon is silent for a moment, which never bodes well for anyone. Mick is already resigning himself to putting the rest of the brandy back untouched by the time she speaks.

“I’m afraid there’s been a change to the timeline that must be corrected before you leave,” Gideon says. “Or history as it is known will be completely rewritten.”


	3. Act Two

“You did what?” Nate exclaims, running one hand anxiously through his hair and tugging at the strands. 

“How was I meant to know the discovery of one silly spearhead would make or break the Holy Wars?” Stein retorts defensively. 

They’re gathered around the study, less strategizing their next more as they are pointing fingers. Mick’s brandy is still close at hand, and he takes another swig as Nate’s voice rockets up in decibels. 

“The Holy Lance is not just a silly spearhead,” Nate says. “It’s the spear that stabbed Christ’s side at the crucifixion. At least, that’s what the Crusaders believed it to be. For them, discovering that spearhead was the only thing that kept up morale. Without it, they likely would have succumbed to starvation and fallen to Kerbogha and the Turks.” 

Suddenly, Nate stops, scoffing and shaking his head. “What am I saying?” he mutters. “Not likely to. They did. Because you interfered.” 

“So, the Crusaders lose Antioch,” Jax posits. “How bad is that really, big picture?” 

“Big picture?” Nate repeats, and Jax nods. “Big picture, the defeat is so crushing, there are no more Crusades. The Catholic church and the papacy lose their foothold in Europe. Without all the Lords and landowners dying in the battle, their property never escheats to the Crown, the regency never gains its power, and feudalism remains the dominant social system for centuries to come. Not to mention, Europe’s intellectual development without the influence of Muslim scholars is incredibly stunted. So is trade and ship-making and the development of commercial enterprise. Bye-bye Merchants of Venice. Bye-Bye William Shakespeare, probably. You have no idea what kind of dystopian hellscape you’ve created!” 

“Actually, Mr. Heywood,” Gideon interrupts. “The state of the world does not appear to be any worse without the effects of the Crusades. Certainly, the influence of Islam is much farther reaching across Europe and beyond, but as far as technological, social, and even political conditions are concerned, much is the same as in the original timeline, if not better off.” 

Mick grunts, tilts his chin in a small nod. “Problem solved,” he says. “We leave well enough alone and find the rest of the crew.” 

“Wha- No,” Nate objects. “Maybe things aren’t worse, but that still doesn’t mean we can change the very fabric of reality as we know it.” 

“I agree with the new guy,” Jax says. “We’re talking over nine hundred years of butterfly effects. I mean, would we even exist anymore? Because I did not sign up to erase myself.” 

“And I am not rewriting another paper because of you people and your meddling,” Nate adds. 

“So we go back to Antioch,” Stein says. “Convince Prince Bohemond that finding the Holy Lance is more likely than we originally believed.”

Nate strides with purpose out of the room and onto the bridge. Jax, Stein, and Mick follow after him, a mix of intrigued and apathetic. 

“I’m coming with you,” Nate announces. “All this went wrong because none of you know the first thing about history. Well, I do.” 

Mick huffs. “Fine,” he says. 

“Gideon,” Stein calls. “Fix our new friend up with a translator pill.” 

“Of course, Professor.” 

From the center of the holotable rises a black case. Stein opens it and grabs a small capsule from inside, handing it Nate’s way. 

“Is this for real?” Nate asks, a certain unbridled giddiness seeping back into his tone. 

“Unless you’re already fluent in medieval French,” Stein deadpans. 

Nate grabs the pill greedily and swallows it dry. “Do these things have much staying power?” he asks. “Because ancient Aramaic? A real bitch to translate.” 

“You’re set for life, man,” Jax assures him, then claps him on the shoulder and steers him to the exit. “Now, come on. You’re not a real Legend until you’ve had to save the timeline from your own mistake at least once.” 

 

* * *

 

Ray grits his teeth as he leans forward to check one of the snares set closest to his campsite. A small, four-legged mammal hangs by the neck, dead but still warm. Too long without checking the snares, and anything Ray might happen to catch is gobbled up by an opportunistic scavenger. Fortunately, that isn’t the case this time around. The painful churning in Ray’s stomach turns to a white hot stab of pain at the mere thought of getting to eat again. 

“Come on, Bambi,” Ray says, untangling the ensnared mammal from its hanging noose. “Looks like you and I have a hot dinner date.”  

Bringing the animal back to his camp, slow and steady on one leg as Bambi ducks and weaves underfoot, Ray starts a small fire and cooks up his kill. He uses a stone ground down to a sharpish edge he keeps in his cave to hack off one of the animal’s hindquarters and toss it Bambi’s way. 

The raptor crunches through bone with razor-sharp teeth and chirrups joyfully. The noise used to be disconcerting to Ray, but he’s come to find it comforting and familiar paired with the noisy sounds of his own chewing. 

The next snare Ray has set is significantly further from camp, and a part of him can’t shake the dread settling in the pit of his stomach, setting the greasy, gamey meat churning. Not for the first time, he wishes he had his Atom suit with him when made the jump back in time. At least then he could do something productive towards his own rescue. 

Sitting and waiting after all these months feels a lot like defeat. 

 

* * *

 

“You could at least help, you know,” Stein huffs. His sleeves are rolled up his forearms, sweat coating his brow, and he turns back to glare at Mick. 

After a harried debate between Stein and Prince Bohemond, Stein’s pride and unwillingness to admit he was wrong nearly costing them the Prince’s approval to search the cathedral until Jax stepped in to plead their case from a more human, less science-based angle, they’re finally excavating the grounds for the spearhead. The crew allowed to them is small, five men, not including themselves and Peter Bartholomew. The day is hot, the scents on the air musty and sharp. 

“I don’t dig for treasure,” Mick replies. “I wait for someone else to do the heavy lifting, then I steal it.” 

Jax shushes Mick sharply. “You wanna be a little quieter about being a thief in a church full of Catholics on a murder spree?” 

“Again,” Nate says, hefting a piece of stone from the hole he’s digging. “I wouldn’t oversimplify the entirety of the Crusades to being just as murder spree. Before the Fourth Crusade, these aren’t even considered Holy Wars so much as they are Pilgrimages to reclaim the Holy Lands.

“Although,” Nate adds, tiling his head in thought. “The Crusaders were notorious for pillaging, even from other Catholic territories. So maybe them and Mick would get along famously after all.” 

Jax and Stein chuckle while Mick rolls his eyes, somewhere on the borderline between amused and unimpressed. Jax’s laughter dies in his throat, however, when his hand brushed smooth metal instead of rough stone. 

Looking down, Jax sees the glint of the spearhead in the sun. For a brief moment, it looks deceptively like it glows. Jax stares at it, enraptured, until the angle of the sun shifts and the glowing abruptly subsides. 

“Jefferson?” Stein asks, sensing Jax’s abrupt shift in mood. 

“I found it,” Jax whispers, then louder – “I found it!” 

Scrambling to unearth the rest of the spearhead, Jax gets his fingers around the edge and pulls it from the ground, holding it triumphantly above his head. Peter Bartholomew runs over like a man possessed and rips the relic from Jax’s hands, cradling it like an infant to his chest. 

“Behold,” Peter bellows. “The blade that pierced Christ’s side, just where Saint Anthony told me it would be. It will bring us all deliverance from the Turks and their assault.” 

The handful of Crusaders cheer in triumph, some moved to tears. 

“Feast,” Peter cries. “We must feast tonight and celebrate our discovery, for in the morning, the Turks will fall by virtue of the Lord!” 

“Hallelujah!” 

As the excited clamouring continues, Mick ushers the Legends aside, away from the noise, to talk their next move. “Crusade's back on,” Mick says. “Let’s go.” 

“Hang on, what?” Nate sputters. “We’re just gonna leave? They’re throwing an honest to God medieval feast, and you don’t wanna stick around for that?” 

“Dude’s got a point,” Jax says. “And since when do you pass up the chance to attend a feast, anyway?” 

“Since crew doesn’t leave each other hanging in the wind, that’s when,” Mick rebukes. 

“Surely, Mr. Rory,” Stein sighs. “One night won’t be of any harm. After two weeks of rations, I must say, I too am intrigued by what a true feast in this time period must be like.” 

Mick huffs, nostrils flared. “Fine,” he says. “We stay. But there’d better be booze.”

 

* * *

 

“Do you have it?” 

Prince Bohemond sits on his platform atop an ornate chair. From the shadows steps a man, no older than twenty, with crooked, rotted teeth. He was present at the cathedral when Jax made his discovery, and in his hands he carries the spearhead of the Holy Lance like a precious gem. 

“It was just where Peter Bartholomew said it would be, Your Highness,” the young man says. 

Prince Bohemond smiles. “You know the task I’ve assigned you?” he asks. 

The man nods, too nervous to speak. 

“Deliver the Holy Lance to the Turks,” Bohemond says. This needs to be explicitly clear. He can’t afford errors. “What the Muslim army will do with the spearhead that drew the blood of Jesus Christ, our Lord and Saviour, I cannot know. But the bargain has been struck. Without the Lance, our people will fall.” 

Prince Bohemond moves to stand. He descends from his platform to stand at eye level with the young soldier, unsettlingly close. He takes the spearhead in his hands and it glows, bright and undeniably miraculous. 

“Be sure Kerbogha keeps his end of the bargain,” Bohemond hisses, the light reflecting in his eyes with terrifying zeal. “I ensure the Turks take Antioch, and I get to remain Prince.” 


	4. Act Three

“Oh, Sara, you’re so brave and strong! How can I ever repay you?” 

A curious chirp from Bambi pulls Ray from his daydream. He sets down the makeshift dolls he fashioned, one with a tiny leaf skirt, and another with straw blonde hair. They stand among the others he made bearing each of the team’s likenesses, as well as a tiny figure in tiny, windsor-knotted tie in the interest of giving Sara accurately representative choices of potential love interests in distress for her to swoop in and save. 

The figurines keep his mind occupied, let him imagine what the others are up to, wherever they are. Maybe stranded in history, too. Maybe still on the Waverider, looking for him. 

Not dead. Definitely not dead. 

Bambi curls into Ray’s side where he lies on the cold, stone ground. They’re close enough to the entrance of the cave that the smoke from the fire can drift out into the open air. 

“I think you’d like Sara,” Ray tells Bambi, scratching the top of her head as she leans into his touch. “I don’t know how much of an animal person she is, but she could probably kill a T. Rex with her bare hands. You’d think that’s pretty cool, wouldn’t you?” 

Bambi tilts her head, sharp and remarkably birdlike, then chirps again. 

“You’d like Jax, too,” Ray says. “He and Martin catch fire. You were scared of fire at first, but you like it now, don’t you, girl?

“Rip,” Ray continues. “I think you’d have some trouble with.” He turns his head to look at Bambi straight on, catching the tiny raptor’s beady black eyes. “But it’s not his fault. From what little we actually know about him, it doesn’t sound like he’s had much experience with healthy, uncomplicated relationships. So we’ve gotta be patient with him sometimes. Though you should definitely remind me to take my own advice next time I see him after stranding me in the Dinoland for nearly six months.” 

Something in Ray’s tone must unsettle Bambi, because she buries her head under the curve of his arm and kneads his left pec with her beak. Ray blinks back a harsh, unexpected wave of tears and turns his head so he doesn’t have to look at her directly. 

Unfortunately, that just lands his gaze back on his figurines and an uncomfortable pang thuds in his chest. 

“Mick,” Ray says, subdued, quiet. “He needs some patience, too, but he’s a good guy, underneath it all. He seems like a dog person to me. Or possibly a snake person. And you’re kinda both, in a weird way, so I bet you’d get along. 

“He makes fire, too, with his Heat Gun. There used to be a Cold Gun. It belonged to his partner. But Snart–” 

Ray swallows hard. He turns his gaze upward to the cave’s roof, the only place that’s safe. 

“He’s gone now.” 

 

* * *

 

The feast to celebrate the discovery of the Holy Lance is epic. A niggling voice at the back of Jax’s mind warns the Crusaders have probably blown through all their rations to lay out such an incredible spread, but he tries not to worry about it. Ultimately, Stein is right. These people have all been dead for hundreds of years. As long as they hold Antioch, they aren’t really Jax’s concern. 

Still, that’s something much easier to think than to truly believe. 

“This is incredible,” Nate exclaims. It’s one of dozens of similar proclamations since leaving the Waverider. 

Jax chuckles, tries to remember when this was all shiny and new to him, too. “Pretty cool, huh?” he agrees. 

“Cool?” Nate says. “This is every historian’s dream come true! How do you even get any of your missions done. All I wanna do is sneak off and preserve ancient documents.”

“I guess it’s because none of us are historians,” Jax reasons. “Though believe me, we go off on plenty of our own tangents just fine.”   

Before Nate can ask Jax to elaborate, a commotion interrupts the jubilant nature of the evening. For a brief second, Jax worries Mick managed to find alcohol somewhere after all and is offending someone’s delicate sensibilities, but that thought is put to rest when Peter Bartholomew crashes the party screaming.

“The Turks have the Holy Lance!” 

Hysteria breaks out quickly amongst the Crusaders as Peter continues to yell. “It was the envoy sent to discuss terms with Kerbogha. He stole the Lance and gave it to Kerbogha to save himself. Selfish! Coward!”

Stein and Mick are at Nate and Jax’s side moments later, sharing dismayed looks. 

“It is an omen,” one Crusader hollers. 

“Antioch will fall to the Turks,” another says. 

Jax  frowns. “This is bad, right?” he asks. 

Nate groans. “It means we’re back to square one.” 

 

* * *

 

Ray sleeps fitfully through the night, every twitch in his sleep jolting him awake with pain. When dawn breaks, Ray can no longer deny two truths. One, he’s not getting any more sleep than he’s already managed to steal. And two, after hours upon hours of sweating in pain, Ray is incredibly thirsty. 

Using the cave wall to pull himself to his feet, Ray hobbles outside. He groans in pain, and Bambi stirs, curious, but ultimately lowers her head back under the cover of her wing and goes back to sleep. 

Ray’s break is worse off this morning. Purple-blue bruising peeks out from under the torn cuff of his pant leg, and the entirety of his shin throbs and burns at once. His head feels like cotton, too, from dehydration, from hunger, from exhaustion. 

There’s a stream not far from Ray’s encampment. It’s why he chose the location in the first place. No access to clean water will kill faster than lack of food, a lesson the Eagle Scouts taught well. Still, as close as the stream is, the trek takes nearly fifteen minutes hopping on one foot, and spots dance in Ray’s vision by the time he finally arrives at the water’s edge. 

He leverages himself onto one knee with a grimace and cups his hands, drinking greedily. The water isn’t cold, it never is, but it’s not as hot as it would be sitting stagnant in a puddle, and it tastes fresh. 

Ray is so consumed with quenching his thirst, he doesn’t notice movement in the forest behind him until a branch snaps. 

“Bambi?” Ray calls, though something about the timbre of the snapping branch doesn’t suggest an eight pound animal. Turning to look over his shoulder, Ray spots the creature that made the noise, and his stomach drops. 

It’s a raptor, but not Bambi, or even another bambiraptor that’s likely to be just as harmless. It’s a velociraptor – a whole pack of them. They’re about as tall as Bambi with a similar feather pattern, but they’re over twice as long from beak to tail at close to seven feet. They’re built heavier, too. Sturdier. 

Like hunters. 

“Nice velociraptors,” Ray says softly, rising to his feet with his hands up. “You don’t wanna eat me.” 

It’s not completely untrue. Something about Ray’s scent is foreign enough that occasionally, predators show him no interest. Unless they happen to be particularly hungry, which seems to be the case now. 

Ray hops back, even as the raptors – four by Ray’s count – fan out to circle around him. He lands on uneven ground and, on instinct, shifts his weight to his broken leg to try to catch himself. 

The pain that rips through Ray’s body is excruciating. He shouts and goes down hard, hitting the earth on his side. The raptors seize their opportunity and move in, swarming Ray with frenzied cries and sharp teeth. 

Ray’s heart hammers in his chest. He uses his hands in the dirt and the muscles of his good leg to scramble back out of the raptors’ reach, but he has nowhere to go with them closing in from every side. Panic claws at his throat. He’s helpless, at the mercy of some of history’s most adept predators. 

He doesn’t want to die like this. 

The thought hits Ray so fiercely he nearly sobs. He’s so used to putting his life on the line for the greater good, to be a hero, but this? Dying forgotten and alone in prehistoric times, his only mark left of the world a massively confused future anthropologist, isn’t how he wants to go. Ray has died an inconsequential death before. He can’t again. 

One of the raptors darts in and sinks its teeth into Ray’s side. Ray howls in pain and swings out blindly. Even his broken leg is in motion now, an instinctive drive to protect himself at all costs winning over against the pain. 

The raptor backs off as Ray hits it in the head, but the damage is already done. Ray’s side is wet with blood, the metallic scent filling the air. If the raptors don’t kill him, it won’t be long before the smell attracts another predator to finished the job. 

“Please,” Ray begs. “Help.” 

And futile as it is, he means it. The call for help is so genuine, it fills every inch of his being with the same, acute desperation. 

Then something incredible happens. The stick bracing Ray’s leg, the slender, cylindrical one, begins to glow. It catches the raptors’ attention. Ray’s too. 

“What the–” 

Before Ray can finish his exclamation, the forest floor rustles again, and a tiny blur of fury rushes from the treeline and tackles the closest raptor the the ground. 

Feathers fly, blood spurting in every direction, some even catching Ray across the face. The three remaining raptors turn their attention to the commotion of the attack, joining in to come to their packmate’s rescue only to suffer the same bloody fate. 

When the screeching and clawing finally falls silent, four velociraptors lie dead on the ground at Ray’s side, a very bloody yet very satisfied Bambi poised above them, chirruping and preening.

Ray has a million questions, but before he can pose a single one, darkness claws at the edges of his vision and unconsciousness overtakes him. 

 

* * *

 

Things are tense around Antioch as word of the Turks attacking at first light spreads. Spirits are lower still with the knowledge that the Holy Lance is in Kerbogha’s hands. 

“How could this possibly have happened?” Stein asks. He, Jax, Mick, and Nate are gathered in the city centre, awaiting direct address from the prince and the holy leaders. “By finding the Lance, we set history back on its proper course.” 

“Something was weird about it, though,” Jax says. 

Nate frows. “How do you mean?” he wonders. 

Jax sighs. He skims his hand over his mouth, feeling a bit self-conscious. “This is gonna sound weird,” Jax says. “But when I held the Lance, I could have sworn it glowed.” 

“Don’t be absurd,” Stein says. “I’m sure it was a simple trick of the light.” 

Mick shrugs. “Dunno, Professor,” he counters. “After the immortal stalker warlord we chased through time, a glowing spear doesn’t seem so far fetched.” 

“Either way,” Nate intercedes. “That’s hardly what matters. With or without the Holy Lance, glowing or otherwise, the Crusaders need the morale to pull through against the Turks and secure their victory.”

“Well,” Stein says. “If it’s inspiration they need, then it’s up to us to provide.” 

Stein straightens up and cuts through the crowd to the head of the assembly. 

“Grey, what are you doing?” Jax hisses, but it’s once again too late. 

“Excuse me,” Stein calls over the murmuring crowd. It takes a few tries, but something from Stein’s lecturer days must kick in, because he finally gets them settled with all eyes on him. 

“I know this is a very uncertain time,” Stein continues. “The hope you once had has been stolen, placed into enemy hands. But you must never lose sight of the most important truth. Faith is not the thing that will save you. If you believe you can be victorious with the Lance, then you can be victorious without it. 

“The power you have cannot be given or taken away by some ancient relic,” Stein implores. “It lies in your skills and your capabilities. That is what’s rational. It’s what’s logical. That is what you should have hope in. Now, who’s with me?” 

Stein raises a first in the air to rally the Crusaders, but his reception falls flat. They fall back to nervous murmurs again, and Stein’s triumphant expression falters as his fist flags. 

“He knows he’s talking to a group of people who joined the Crusade because they genuinely believe it’s what God wants, right?” Nate asks Jax out of the corner of his mouth. 

Jax’s mouth pulls down in a frown to match Stein’s. 

“It’s gonna get ugly out here,” Mick says, turning his attention to Nate. “Since I’m sure Pretty’s never thrown punch in his life, maybe you wanna head back to the ship.” 

“I don’t want you to just cast me off to the sidelines,” Nate objects. 

“How ‘bout we cast you in a body bag?” Mick replies. 

Nate pales. 

“Keep looking for the others,” Mick instructs. “You’d better know where they are by the time we’re done fixing the this mess.” 

Nate’s legs feel like Jell-O under Mick’s intense stare, but he nods solemnly all the same. He has a big task ahead of him. 

They all do. 


	5. Act Four

As dawn breaks, the pinks and purples of the Mediterranean sky backlight the rapid approach of Kerbogha’s army. 

“Finally,” Mick grunts. “Some action.” 

He cracks his knuckles and stretches the muscles in his neck. Jax and Stein side-eye him, unimpressed. 

“People are gonna die,” Jax says. “And it’ll all be for nothing. Their morale is as low as ever. What are we supposed to do? Defeat the Turks’ whole army by ourselves?” 

“It seems we’ll have to at least try,” Stein replies. 

Within the hour, the Turks arrive just outside the walls of Antioch, ready to lay siege, and Mick, Stein, and Jax have no choice but to follow to the front lines. 

 

* * *

 

“Come on, where are you guys?” 

Nate buries his nose deeper in the ancient tome he’s reading as Gideon runs tracking algorithm after tracking algorithm on her system, scanning for changes in the timeline that might be explained by having a Legend where they shouldn’t be. 

Nate feels helpless. His selling feature to the team is his knowledge of history. More than that, it’s a part of his identity. But without the first clue where to look, turning over every stone in the timeline is an exercise in futility, and Nate stands, translating his frustrating and anxiety into pacing. 

The rest of the Legends are out there, on the front lines, either in Antioch or in their own corner of time, and what is Nate doing? 

“Pull yourself together, Heywood,” he mumbles. “Somewhere out there, to someone lost in time, you’re their only hope.”  

 

* * *

 

Chaos surrounds Jax on every side like smog around an asthmatic. Terrible noises of metal clanging against metal as flails and maces strike against armour, the scent of blood permeating the air as scimitars and battle-axes sliced deep through flesh and viscera. He can hardly breathe with it. 

The Crusaders fall to the Turks like autumn leaves, brittle and lifeless, hanging on by a thread until the slightest wind comes along to blow them down. 

“We have to do something,” Jax hollers to Stein as he knocks a soldier away with the end of his quarterstaff, the least deadly of the weapons he’d been offered. 

“We are doing something, Jefferson,” Stein hollers back, wielding his own quarterstaff with less finesse. They’ve lost Mick somewhere in the madness and the bloodshed. “If only the Crusaders weren’t so tied to their blind faith. They would see the Holy Lance holds no real power.” 

Something about the statement rings so untrue to Jax, he falters and nearly takes a swinging halberd to the side. He jumps back just in the nick of time, then hits his attacker across the jaw.

“Maybe it does,” Jax says. Stein frowns, so Jax explains. “You’re looking at this faith thing all wrong, Grey. All these men out here signed up for the Crusades because of their religion, because they believed it’s what their God wanted. And maybe belief is power.” 

The more Jax talks the concept out, the more he knows he’s right. Science and logic aren’t the way to motivate the Crusaders. Right or wrong, it’s their faith in God that motivates their actions, and that’s something worth honouring, worth not overlooking. It also gives Jax his first real idea of how to get morale back up. 

“I know how we rally the troops,” Jax says. “But you gotta trust me.” 

Jax holds out his hand, and Stein eyes it skeptically, but with one more insistent look on Jax’s end, he takes it, and in a breath, the two become Firestorm. 

The humanoid ball of flame ascending into the sky catches the attention of both sides, and the fighting halts for a moment as soldiers, Turks and Crusaders alike, stop to stare up at Firestorm in awe. 

“Be not afraid,” Jax bellows. From deep in the recesses of their psychic bond, he can practically feel Stein rolling his eyes. 

Still, they conjure up an impressive image, all blazing glory and angelic fury. The Crusaders shake where they stand, and Jax does his best to soften his features through the haze of the flames, to appear more benevolent, more approachable. His brief concern about also assuaging the Turks vanishes as he remembers that he’s literally flying through the sky on fire in a time without vigilantes or metahumans, when that still means something extraordinary to people. 

“Crusaders,” Jax continues. He does his best to channel Stein here, the formal way he speaks, the measured tone of his voice. “Fall not at the hands of the Turks. Not when there is much noble work yet to be done. Go forth to victory. The power lies within you.” 

“As God wills it,” yells one Crusader, and countless more echo him back, the statement rallying like a battle cry. 

_ Something about my part in all this feels markedly uncomfortable _ , Stein’s voice whispers in some amorphous space in Jax’s mind. 

Jax scoffs. “No arguments there,” Jax replies. A small, pleased smirk pulls at the corner of his lips as the Crusaders launch back into battle, efforts redoubling. “Now, come on. We’ve got a siege to win.” 

Swooping into action, Firestorm launches attack after attack at the advancing Turks, pushing back those on foot, knocking others from their horses. With the aerial view, they spot Mick again, in the thick of the action, all forms of medieval weaponry forgone in favour of fists and body slams and raw aggression. 

For a moment, it seems like the Crusaders have found their upper hand. The Turks push back, inundated by a wave of eager, determined soldiers holding Antioch’s walls. Then, as suddenly as the boost in morale drove them forward, the Crusaders fall back, the Turks regaining whatever ground they previously lost. 

Jax’s face falls in dismay. 

_ I don’t understand, _ Stein says, putting voice to Jax’s own thoughts.  _ Mr. Heywood was very clear. All the crusaders needed to rise to victory was the appropriate morale. What’s gone wrong? _

Jax is about to say he isn’t sure, gets as far as opening his mouth, until something from out on the battlefield catches his eye. 

“There! Do you see that?” 

Among the fighting Turk soldiers is a man with a spearhead wrapped around his neck like a pendant. Under normal circumstances, such a minor detail would easily be overlooked, especially in the chaos of war, but such things become harder to miss when said spearhead is glowing. 

_ Is that? _ Stein begins. 

“The Holy Lance,” Jax finishes. A sudden flash of something dark and unpleasant, something a lot like anger, hits Jax high in his ribcage. “Man, I told you I saw it glow. But did anyone believe me?” 

_ Now is not the time, Jefferson _ , Stein interjects. 

Jax shakes his head, but lets it drop. “How much you wanna bet that spearhead has some kind of magical properties after all?” he asks. 

_ About as much as I’d be willing to bet the man wielding it is the infamous Kerbogha himself, _ Stein replies. 

“New plan,” Jax says, already swooping down to single Mick out and update his orders, wishing belatedly they’d thought to bring earpieces. “Kerbogha has the Holy Lance. We need to get it back,” he calls to Mick. 

“Which one of these bastards is Kerbogha?” Mick fires back. 

Both duck fast to dodge an incoming barrage of arrows. “Don’t worry,” Jax replies. “You’ll see him. He glows.” 

“Glows?” Mick repeats, but Firestorm is already off again, hoping to take Kerbogha down even before Mick can wade through enough Turk soldiers to reach them. 

Kerbogha sees Firestorm coming and readies his sword. Fire flies from the palms of Jax’s hands, aiming to blast Kerbogha from his horse before he can take his swing. Kerbogha dodges, maneuvering his horse expertly through the fray. An onslaught of arrows whizzes through the air from other riders on horseback, trying to drive Firestorm back. 

“Rally around the angel,” calls one of the Crusaders, a battle cry his brothers in arms take up with vigor. The Crusaders push back against the Turks with everything they have, their enthusiasm and violence clearing enough of a path for Mick to slip through, even as Firestorm fires at Kerbogha again. 

The battle is greuling. Kerbogha ducks shot after shot, and the Turks give as good as they get. Jax grits his teeth as he dodges another round of arrows, these ones flaming, as they shoot through the sky. He hears the startled cries of Crusaders who don’t retreat quickly enough as the arrows fall to earth, and he winces in regret. 

_ We need to end this, quickly, _ Stein says inside his mind. 

“Mick,” Jax yells, eyes locking onto his teammate where he muscles his way through a handful of Turk soldiers, less than ten feet from Kerbogha horse. “We need an opening!” 

Mick shoots Firestorm a glance and a devilish smirk. In a burst of adrenaline, Mick grabs one of the Turks by the front and tosses him backward, stumbling toward Kerbogha’s horse. Before he can right himself, Mick brings his mace down swinging and the soldier careens into the horse’s side, knocking Kerbogha off balance. 

As Kerbogha topples to the ground, Jax swoops in low and grabs the spearhead from around his neck, ascending back to the sky and making a hasty retreat as the surrounding Turks swing at Firestorm with their swords. 

Jax whoops triumphantly as he turns the piece of the Holy Lance over his his hands. From deep in his mind, he feels Stein’s gentle, friendly laughter. 

_ You made a good call out there, Jefferson. _

 

* * *

 

“So, what do we even do with this thing now that we have it?” 

Jax turns the spearhead over in his hands, not glowing anymore since he snatched it from around Kerbogha’s neck. 

Gideon reassured them, upon their return to the Waverider, that history was once more in order, a reweaving of time averted thanks to their timely intervention. Though lore surrounding the First Crusade and the discovery of the Holy Lance now did reference the appearance of a fiery angel, where it hadn’t before. 

Mick, Jax, and Stein stand around Gideon’s holotable, discussing their options, as Nate continues his research in the study, his hair sticking up at every angle, but a determined fire in his eyes. 

“Certainly we can’t leave it to the whims of history,” Stein says. “I can’t yet speak to the science behind its apparent mystical properties, but it seems highly unwise to allow it the chance to fall into the wrong hands again.” 

“In all original records,” Gideon offers helpfully. “The Lance was effectively considered lost to history, following the Crusades.” 

“Then we keep it on the ship,” Mick says. “Or we destroy it. Either way, it doesn’t matter. What matters is finding Haircut and Blondie.” 

“And Captain Hunter,” Stein adds. 

Mick curls his lip. “Yeah,” he says. “And when we do, I’ll be sure to give him a piece of my mind.” 

“That makes two of us,” Jax jokes. “I mean, I’m glad to not be dead and all, but the last couple weeks have not been fun. I am starving.” 

“As am I,” Stein agrees. “What do you say, Jefferson? I suppose it’s high time for us to sit down and have a proper meal, medieval fest notwithstanding.” 

Before Jefferson can answer either way, the trio are interrupted as Nate runs into the room, nearly breathless with nervous energy. 

“I think I found him,” Nate says. 

Jefferson tries to school his excitement based on a declaration so vague. Still, he feels his heart leap into his throat. “Him who?” he ask. 

“Ray Palmer,” Nate replies. “He’s in the Cretaceous Period.” 


	6. Act Five

“What do you mean Haircut’s in the Cretaceous Period?” Mick snarls, his grip tensing on the edge of the holotable.

“I found reports of strange fossil evidence collected by paleontologists traced to a remote area in Montana,” Nate explains. “According to their findings, they discovered what appears to be fossilized traces of human life that date all the way back to the Cretaceous. Of course, they’re all writing it off as a fluke, or some sort of coincidence, but I’d be willing to put down money that it’s not.”

Jax shifts uncomfortably, dread settling in the pit of his stomach. “When you say fossilized traces?” he prompts, unable to bring himself to finish his sentence.

Nate’s eyes go wide. “No, no,” he says. “Not a skeleton. Although, given the weird way time travel works, I guess they could have.”

Stein blanches.

Nate winces. “I mean,” he continues. “Not that that means your friend would be dead or anything. It’s time travel. You could just go back and fix it, right?”

Mick shakes his head. “There are rules,” he says. “As much as I usually hate ‘em, these are the kind you don’t wanna mess with.”

“You can’t go back in your own timeline,” Jax explains. “Or, well,” he amends. “I guess you could. But it’s always kinda sold like it’d be bad news, for everyone involved.”

A grimace pulls at Nate’s lips. “Then you’re really not gonna like this next part,” he says.

Mick’s eyes are sharp and hard. “Spit it out, Pretty,” he snaps.

Nate flushes at the nickname, but soldiers on. “The technology paleontologists use is incredibly sophisticated, but it has its limits. I can only track Ray’s position in time to a window of about 10,000 years.”

The admission feels like a stone settled in Jax’s throat. His brain is still scrambling for something to say when Mick moves, quick as a cat, across the deck of the Waverider to grab Nate by the shirtfront and shove him up against the nearest wall.

“Mr. Rory,” Stein protest as both he and Jax take a step forward on instinct. They freeze when Mick slams Nate’s body back against the unyielding surface again, too stunned to move.

“Listen here, you little punk,” Mick growls, voice gravelly, eyes wild. “The only reason you're on this damn ship is to find the team. You can’t do that, tell me why I shouldn’t open the cargo doors this second and drop your ass into the Temporal Zone.”

“Okay, Mick, that’s enough,” Jax says, finally finding his voice.

Mick grunts, low and dangerous, and glares at Nate for another long, tense moment before letting the other man go with one last shove back into the wall.

“Get back in there. Find where Hunter’s little magic trick dropped Haircut to the second,” Mick says. “You got that?”

“Yeah,” Nate stammers, righting himself and adjusting the fit of his shirt. “Yeah, I understand.”

Jax and Stein watch Nate retreat to the study with worried eyes. Mick takes off down the hall before either can say anything to stop him.

 

* * *

 

Ray fades into consciousness again for the fourth time in half as many hours with his mouth feeling like cotton.

He’s back in his cave, though the hideout offers little more than shelter for the time being. All Ray’s rations were depleted days ago, and his fire has since gone out. Not that it would help much were it still lit, not the way fire crawls under his skin, burning him alive from the inside.

“I don’t think I’m doing so hot,” Ray mumbles. Every press of flesh against flesh sticks his lips together, the last of his saliva dried down to a sticky paste between cracked, sunburnt skin.

Ray feels a weight shift as Bambi nestles in closer on his good side, concern evident in her dark, beady eyes. She’s still covered head to tail in blood from the raptors she tore apart, and the stark reminder of her potential to be vicious should terrify Ray, but all it does is comfort him instead.

“Thanks for staying with me, girl,” he says, his voice raw and breathy. Weak. “I always figured this whole hero thing would get me killed someday,” he admits, quiet and vulnerable and delirious with fever. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes. “But I never wanted to die alone.”

Hearing it said out loud, Ray can’t hold his tears back anymore. He wipes at his eyes with tired, heavy limbs as wetness leaks from the corners and down the sides of his temples.

“It was always supposed to mean something,” Ray rasps. “I was supposed to die a hero. Not like this. Never like this.”

The weight of Bambi’s head moving to rest on Ray’s chest anchors him. He’s sore and tired and _dying_ , he knows he is, but she keeps him from giving up. Not yet, anyway. Not until it really is the end.

“I need water,” Ray tells her, licking fruitlessly at his lips with a tongue nearly as dry. He pulls himself with great effort to his feet, and Bambi chirrups unhappily as she’s jostled.

“Wait here for me,” Ray says as he hobbles to the cave’s mouth. “I’ll be right back.”

For a moment, Bambi doesn’t seem convinced, but eventually, she settles in again, used to Ray moving to and from his makeshift dwelling without her. As her eyes slide shut, Ray exits the cave and heads for the stream nearby, hoping that with enough hydration, maybe, just maybe, his body will start to heal.

It’s a vain hope, but right now, hope is all he has.  

 

* * *

 

“There’s nothing here, man,” Jax says, throwing his reading down on the desk in the study. Martin looks up at him from his own textbook, sat in one of the room’s armchairs, and frowns.

“Don’t give up yet, Jefferson,” Stein implores. “Mr. Heywood was able to track Raymond as far as the Cretaceous. Surely we’ll be able to track him even closer, still.”

Nate and Jax share a wary look, neither of them too convinced. Then, all three men shift their gaze Mick’s way, where he sits, perched on the arm of his own chair, drinking from his fourth bottle for beer since barging into the study with a sixpack to glower them into working faster.

Mick says nothing, just continues to drink, shooting Nate a dirty look from the corner of his eye.

Jax is about to suggest they call it a night – the timeline might risk solidifying with Ray still stranded, but there’s nothing any of them can do for him dead on their feet – when Nate looks up from Gideon’s readings on his tablet and nearly jumps from his seat.

“I found him,” Nate announces, a burst of relieved laughter bubbling up in his throat. “For real this time. Holy crap, I really found him!”

“Where?” Mick asks, shifting in his seat until he’s nearly standing, on the tips of his toes, leaning closer to Nate even from across the room.

“Gideon, do you see that?” Nate asks, ignoring Mick’s question.

“I do, Mr. Heywood,” Gideon replies. “Tracking the origin of the timeline anomaly to its source.”

“Timeline anomaly?” Jax asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Nate says. “We’re talking, like, a half a dozen dead dinos out of place at the most. But according to Gideon’s programming, it’s just enough of a discrepancy to indicate some pretty significant timeline interference.”

“Like Dr. Palmer,” Stein finishes.

Nate nods.

Jax is scrambling into action before Mick can get his mouth open. “I’ve got the controls. Strap yourselves in,” he says. “Gideon, plot a course to that anomaly.”

“Right away, Mr. Jackson,” Gideon replies.

Jax beams as he straps into the captain’s seat.

 

* * *

 

Ray’s hunched over the stream, bringing a soiled and bloodied hand cupped full of water to his mouth, when he hears it, that telltale sound that haunts his nightmares roaring in the distance.

It’s the T-Rex.

Of all the times for Ray to run into the apex predator, of course it had to be now, while he’s injured and bleeding, while he’s starving and dehydrated. He knows from the pack of raptors he’s in no shape to flee, and even Bambi can’t rescue him against a dinosaur of this size.

Still, Ray can’t bring himself to give in and wait. Even as the ground rumbles under his feet at the T-Rex’s approach, Ray takes off in a hobble, trying to put as much distance between himself and the dinosaur as he can, a fighter to the end.

Every step he takes, pain throbs in his leg. It throbs in his side where the raptor bit him. It throbs in his head where his brain screams for food, for water, for rest, where the fever of an untreated infection boils the fluids trapped in his skull.

“Not like this,” Ray begs, nearly collapsing on shaky legs, part exhaustion, part petrification, as the T-Rex finally comes into view. It’s enormous, its jaws unhinged as it roars, teeth sharp and deadly, breath putrid even from the distance of a few yards.

Ray’s skin crawls looking up at it. His stomach turns. “Please not like this.”

The T-Rex steps forward, and Ray braces for death, but startles as a stream of open flame catches the predator on its side.

“Fry, you overgrown chicken,” he hears someone bellow, deep and rumbly and full of aggression. But it’s been so long since Ray’s heard the sound of another person’s voice. Even when it’s this familiar, he hardly trusts it.

Ray doesn’t have to trust his ears long. As the T-Rex runs off to lick its wounds, Ray swivels his head and standing there, not five feet to his left, is someone he’s been so incredibly desperate to see.

“Mick, buddy,” Ray greets, a halfway delirious smile plastered to his face.

Mick’s brows furrow as the world around the corners of Ray’s vision goes blurry and the forest sways around him. The last thing Ray registers before losing consciousness is the feeling of freefalling, then arms, strong and sure, catching him around his waist.

 

* * *

 

“Why the hell didn’t you get to him sooner?”

Nate’s back stings as it hits the wall again, Mick shoving him forward with vitriol and heat.

“I said to the second.”

Nate grits his teeth against the discomfort he knows he’ll be feeling tomorrow, more than anyone would assume, and finally snaps, pushing back.

“Listen, asshole,” Nate volleys back. His stomach quivers at the fury in Mick’s eyes, but it’s too late to back down now, so he steels himself instead and stalks forward, forcing Mick back with every step. “Do you even realize how impossible what you’re asking me to do is? You need to cut me some slack. Your friend should have been lost to time forever. But despite the odds, I still found him, okay? I did that.”

As his ire fades, shame settles in, and Nate clears his throat. “And Gideon,” he adds.

“Thank you, Mr. Heywood,” Gideon replies, almost sounding smug.

It’s quiet for a moment after that, Mick still staring at Nate with rage and fire, but something in the pinched lines of his expression registers to Nate less as fury and more as fear, and the last of his fight leaves him in an embarrassing _woosh_.

“Is Ray gonna be alright?” Nate asks, glancing first at Mick, then over to Stein and Jax when Mick won’t hold his gaze.

“Gideon's systems are incredibly capable,” Stein assures him. “Raymond will be fine in no time.”

“Speaking of doing the impossible,” Jax says when the uncomfortable silence settles over them again. “Have you found any leads on Sara or Rip yet?”

Nate sighs and shakes his head. “Sorry,” he replies. “I’ll keep looking, I promise.”

Mick soffs and stalks forward, bumping Nate’s shoulder hard enough to make him gasp on the way by. “Start now.”

As Nate rubs tentatively at the pain blossoming in his arm, Mick storms out without so much as a backward glance. Stein and Jax offer him sympathetic looks, but it does little to settle the anxiety welling up in Nate’s chest. They’re all worried about their crewmates.

And it’s up to Nate to find them.

 

* * *

 

Storming down the hall to his room, Mick almost runs headlong into Ray, coming out of the medbay. Mick glanes at him critically and frowns. He’s dressed in his own clothes, his overgrown hair cut back to its signature style, clean shaven, with colour back in his cheeks. To the untrained eye, he looks good, hardly the shadow of a man he was when they found him, running for his life from Jurassic Park, but Mick still sees the tension in his shoulders, the handful of pounds shed from his frame.

“Why are you up?” Mick gunts, catching Ray by the forearm to steady him, them pushing him back again.

Ray blinks, owlish, and steals a glance down at his arm where Mick’s fingers were pressed.

“Haircut?” Mick prompts.

Ray looks up and blinks again, then smiles a bright, sunny smile, though it struggles to quite reach his eyes the way it normally does.

“Gideon gave me the all clear,” Ray says. He holds out his arms, offering himself up for Mick to inspect. “See, good as new. Not even a scar.”

To punctuate the statement, Ray pulls up the hemline of his shirt and shows Mick the expanse of his side, where once there were puncture marks from deadly raptor teeth, all that remains is unblemished skin.

Mick scoffs and rolls his eyes, then brushes past Ray as he continues down the hall, their arms just grazing as they pass.

“Save the strip show for someone who cares,” Mick calls without glancing back, then disappears around the bend in the hall.

Ray turns and stares after him, shirt still raised above the site of his old wound. As he lowers his shirt, fingers graze skin and he shudders, drawing in a deep, shaky breath, eyes sliding closed, heavy and pained.

 

* * *

 

Nate sits alone in the study, the sounds of idle conversation from the bridge faint and unremarkable, especially with his attention focused on the reading at hand. His nose is buried in a journal, old and leather-bound, not especially thick or especially remarkable, but in good condition nonetheless.

As he reads, Nate’s eyes catch on a sentence of text and his eyebrows furrow. He reads it over again, and his eyes go wide.

“Holy–”

 

* * *

 

Jax, Stein, and Ray halt their conversation mid-sentence as Nate barrels in from the study, eyes wild and excited, waving a leather-bound journal through the air like it’s the most important thing he’s ever seen, and the whole world needs to know.

“I found her,” Nate exclaimed. “Sara Lance. I found her.”

The three men on the bridge instantly light up.

“Where?” Jax asks, nearly vibrating with excitement to throw himself back behind the wheel of the ship and steer them to their lost teammate. His lost friend.

“France, 1944, at the height of World War Two,” Nate replies. “She's with the Justice Society of America.”

 

* * *

 

**END CREDITS**


	7. Episode Art

[see on tumblr here](http://kickingshoes.tumblr.com/post/165047827407/art-for-the-second-lotrewrite-written-by)

Kickingshoes' tarot card for Episode 2. They've created a full set of Major Arcana based on the episodes! See more of their art [here](http://kickingshoes.tumblr.com/tagged/our-art)!


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